


Authenticity

by absolutelyCancerous (cal1brations)



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Character Study, Competition, Pre-Canon, Slice of Life, no like a legit competition like a music competition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:53:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cal1brations/pseuds/absolutelyCancerous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Soul never knew what it felt like to hold a first place trophy in his hands, only knew that he longed for the validation so bad, he could <i>taste</i> it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Authenticity

The Evans household is usually a disaster, pre-competition.

“Mom,” Soul will ask of the heel-clicking storm of his mother as she scurries from here to there and back, her thoughts just as scattered and random as her current actions, “this sheet music isn’t in the right key. This is B flat.”

She hardly recognizes her son is speaking to her, and instead shouts for the boy’s father to _come down and solve this, Wes can’t seem to find his tie and the one he’s wearing is too damn short— **please** get down here!_

So, Soul shuffles to the foot of the stairs, watching his father take said stairs two at a time and nearly missing Soul himself standing at the bottom in his absolute hurry.

“This sheet music isn’t in the right key.” Soul tells him bluntly, holding out the papers for his father to take from him.

“Is that yours or the judges’ music?”

“For the judges.”

His father curses, and runs back upstairs to the office. Quickly ends up having to trot back down, snatch the music from Soul’s hand, ask what key his son needs, and make his way back up the stairs to go print out the correct music.

Soul himself goes to sneak into the kitchen for a snack, because this is chaos he’s used to; it happens nearly once every month or so. He’s putting a glass on the table and reaching for the milk in the fridge when Wes skids in, slams into the table, sends the glass careening to a shattered death on the tile, and covers his mouth to keep from squawking at the mess the splinters make.

“Don’t tell!” Wes whispers when their father yells down a concerned “what on _earth_ was that?” towards his sons. Soul, seeing the tears welling and knowing that either way Wes is going to cry, sighs and nods at his sibling, stepping up onto a chair and then the table to reach over to the cupboard and pull out the broom.

He’s glad he the little brother; he feels a little more important when he does things that prove his worth, like protecting his brother from a scolding.

.-._.-._.-.

The actual day of the competition is hell.

Soul and Wes generally take turns running around the house, pulling on socks and finding their cufflinks in odd places around their rooms. Mom brushes Wes’s hair, Dad tells Soul not to get his slacks dirty or, so help him god, he’s getting spanked in the audition hall. Wes is nervous as all hell, jittery and practicing his fingering while his mother ties his tie delicately, calming him with her aura of reassurance. Soul is nervous, too, but his nervousness doesn’t make his legs bounce like his brothers’ or make him want to practice his songs. His is the kind that festers inside, makes his stomach twist in on itself and the little voice in the back of his head remind him about how it feels to go home with a winner, said winner not being Soul himself. His father fixes his collar and tie a bit, brushes Soul’s shoulders and smiles.

“Try hard, alright?”

It always sounds like he means “try not to suck as bad as last time, okay?” and it makes Soul’s self-esteem plummet deep into the ground, where the earth and the Devil himself gobble it all up greedily.

After plenty of momentary disasters (like where so and so put the music receipts for Wes’s music, or where Soul’s binder is, or where the car keys are) and a lot of panic, the Evans family is on their way, and wherever they go, they are usually hailed like goddamned royalty. People stop to watch them walk towards their buildings to sign in, other students whisper about them as they walk by.

Wes Evans and his little brother—what’s-his-face.

_Soul! My name is Soul!_ is what Soul screams inside, when he’s referred to time after time after time as “Wes’s younger brother” or some variation. It’s not that he doesn’t like being a little brother, but they’re not alike (aside from their looks, but even then, they are very much like night and day) and it makes Soul angry to be based off of his sibling before anyone even knows him. Even the woman who checks them in and gives them their room numbers calls him the dreaded “Wes’s little brother” and Soul has the sass in him (already at a bright and freezing eight-thirty a.m.) to snap, “My name is Soul,” in her face.

“He’s just grumpy—early audition times and all,” their mother quickly assures, and the woman smiles nervously, marking the pages of their music receipts to make sure they’re in the right order for the judges.

.-._.-._.-.

Competitions involve a _dreadful_ amount of waiting. Waiting to play, waiting for judges to come back from breaks, waiting for your turn to be finished, finding something to do while waiting for the winners to be announced.

Wes brings some fancy book to read that makes him look intelligent. His mother chats on the phone with her sister; his father is working on something Soul can’t quite read, due to his terrible handwriting.

Soul ends up going to a practice room only to stay out of the cold March air.

(And to feel the nervousness and self-consciousness battle within him in silence.)

.-._.-._.-.

No one hates the awards ceremony as much as the students whom compete in the competition itself. Not because they don’t like winning, obviously, but because it’s so painfully long and drawn-out, it’s actually impossible to sit through and be legitimately entertained for more than a few minutes at a time, if _any_.

Soul sits next to his mother in the nice chairs of the theater, and smiles when she kisses his forehead and tells him how excited she is. He knows that she isn’t excited for him as a person, so much as she’s excited about the competition, but he likes to pretend she’s cheering for him, anyway.

Winners are announced, trophies up on the table get distributed and ribbons are handed out. Songs are sung and played. Soul likes watching the singers the most, though, because he enjoys observing the pianists that accompany them.

(No violinist ever accompanied a singer. Not once, Soul remembers to himself, smugly.)

Soul’s category comes up, and he surprisingly pulls a second place and an honorable mention in another category as well; that totals one of the nice, blue ribbons and a medium-sized trophy that he gets to carry back to his seat. His mother claps for him, as does his father, but it’s Wes who grins a grin that means anything, and who pats Soul’s back and tells him how absolutely fantastic he did, great job, Soul!

Violinists are last (thank god; they often have long songs to play if they win, seeing as first place plays the piece they won the category with) and Wes is called up for a first place trophy, a second place in his other category, and an honorable mention overall. He plays a piece that lasts for awhile, and the longer it lasts, the harder Soul’s throat burns. He’s happy, he is, but the feeling of never being good enough starts to take over him, starts to slither into the pit of his soul and wind around his half-hopeful heart, shattering the rest of any positive thoughts that may have held warmth there.

Tears streak down his round cheeks, and when his mother asks if he’s alright, Soul just smiles and tells her, “Wes is really good.”

And it wrenches the dagger in his being when she cracks a smile of her own, and nods. “He’s fantastic.”

.-._.-._.-.

Soul packs his bag in the dark. He’s got one hundred and seventy dollars and a backpack sparsely packed with enough food to last him half a week (if he’s lucky) and an extra set of clothes—a nicer shirt than what he’s wearing, boxers.

He doesn’t turn the light on for a last time. He can see the moonlight catch in the trophies perfectly as is. Second places, third places, ribbons, things that do nothing but make his eyes ache and his insides wither into bitterness.

He can’t stay anymore, because staying means that his hate will grow and cling to other forces, other places to justify what drives him to be so cold. He can’t risk hating Wes, not his brother. He can’t risk hating music, either.

Soul steps out into the night, walks a few blocks from their house and uses a payphone at a gas station to call a cab. He waits in the freezing air, air that smells of stale cigarettes and midnight and rebellion. The stars wink lasciviously at him in the sky, as do the women whom strut the streets here; he’s seen them before in planning his getaway, and they know not to try to get him home anymore.

The cab arrives, and Soul dives in, asking for the man to turn the heater up, please.

The driver turns around, frowns and looks back outside.

“You got a ‘rent taggin’ along, kid?”

“No, but I’ve got a hundred bucks with your name on it if you can get me into Death City by tomorrow morning.”

The man looks unamused, tired, old brown eyes watching as Soul settles in and does his seatbelt. The cab begins to move, and Soul finds himself smiling in relaxation. This man is a stranger, a total stranger, and yet Soul feels more at home here than ever before. He doesn’t feel like chaos and life is happening around him, it’s happening with him involved in it!

“Death City. What’s a kid like you going for there?”

“Academy.”

The cab driver is not surprised. He glances in his mirror, to give Soul a smirk.

“Say, you look an awful like one of the Evans boys, kid.”

It’s better than being Wes’s little brother, but Soul still retorts.

“Eater. My last name is Eater.”

The feeling in his gut with those words on his tongue, the warming, new identity that crawls over his flesh and takes control of him, leads him—Soul imagines _this_ is how first place must feel.


End file.
